Chief-Inspector Parker, with his arm in a sling and his nerves very much on edge, received the information in his own home, just as he thought his day’s work was happily done with. He grumbled horribly; but there had been a good deal of fuss made lately at the yard about dope-gangs, and things had been said which he resented. He irritably called a taxi and trundled down to the Morning Star offices, accompanied by a morose person called Sergeant Lumley, who disliked him, and whom he disliked, but who happened to be the only sergeant available.

By this time, Hector Puncheon’s excitement had rather worn off. He was getting sleepy and stupid after a broken night and a hard day’s work. He could not control his yawns, and the Chief-Inspector snapped at him. In answer to questions he managed, however, to give a fairly complete account of his movements during the night and early morning.

“Actually, then,” said Parker, when the tale was finished, “you can’t say with any certainty when you received this packet?”

“No, I can’t,” said Hector, resentfully. He could not help feeling that it was very clever of him to have received the packet at all, and that everybody ought, somehow, to be grateful to him. Instead of which, they almost seemed to think he was to blame for something.

“You say you found it in your right hand coat-pocket. Did you at no time previously to that put your hand in that pocket for anything?”

“I should think I must have,” said Hector. He yawned. “But I can’t exactly remember.” He yawned again, uncontrollably.

“What do you keep in that pocket?”

“Odds and ends,” said Hector. He dipped into the pocket and drew out a mixed collection-a pencil, a box of matches, a pair of nail-scissors, some string, a thing for opening beer-bottles with patent caps, a corkscrew for opening ordinary beer-bottles, a very dirty handkerchief and some crumbs.

“If you could remember using any of those things during the night-” suggested Parker.

“I must have used the handkerchief,” said Hector, gazing at it in some dismay. “I meant to take a clean one out this morning. I did, too. Where is it? Oh, in my trousers-pocket. Here it is. But of course,” he added, helpfully, “this isn’t the suit I wore last night. I had my old tweed jacket on then. I must have put the dirty handkerchief in this pocket with the other things instead of into the clothesbasket. I know it’s the one I had at the fire. Look at the soot on it.”

“Quite so,” said Parker, “but can you remember when you used this handkerchief last night? Surely, if you had felt in your pocket at any time, you couldn’t have failed to come on the packet if it was there.”

“Oh, yes, I could,” said Hector, brightly. “I shouldn’t notice. I’m so accustomed to having a lot of junk in my pocket. I can’t help you there, I’m afraid.”

Another frightful yawn attacked him. He stifled it manfully, and it forced itself painfully out at his nose, nearly breaking his ear-drums on the way. Parker gazed crossly at his grimacing countenance.

“Do try to keep your mind on what I am asking you, Mr. Firkin,” he said. “If only-”

“Puncheon,” said Hector, annoyed.

“Puncheon,” said Parker. “I beg your pardon. Did you at any time, Mr. Puncheon-?”

“I don’t know,” interrupted Hector. “I honestly don’t know. It’s no good asking. I can’t tell you. I would if I could, but I simply can’t.”

Mr. Hawkins, looking from one to the other, discovered in himself a little elementary knowledge of human nature.

“I think,” he said, “a small drink is indicated.”

He fetched a bottle of Johnnie Walker and some glasses from a locker and set them on the desk, together with a siphon. Parker thanked him and, suddenly ashamed of himself and his bad temper, apologized.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I was a bit curt. I got my collar-bone broken a little time ago and it still aches a bit and makes me abominably peevish. Let’s go about this business another way. Why do you suppose, Mr. Puncheon, that anybody should have picked you out to take charge of this hefty dose of dope?”

“I thought whoever it was must have mistaken me for some one else.”

“So I should imagine. And you think that’s more likely to have happened at the pub than anywhere else?”

“Yes; unless it was in the crowd at the fire. Because in the other places-I mean in this office and when I was interviewing people, everybody knew me, or at last they knew what I was there for.”

“That seems sound,” agreed Parker. “How about this restaurant where you had your sausages?”

“There’s that, of course. But I can’t recollect anybody coming near enough to me to shove things in my pocket. And it couldn’t have been during the fire either, because I had my burberry on, buttoned up. But in the pub, I had my burberry open, and there were at least four people barging up against me-one of two carters who were there before me, and a little man who looked like a bookmaker’s tout or something, and the drunken chap in dress clothes and the old boy sitting in the corner. I don’t think it can have been the carter, though; he looked quite genuine.”

“Had you ever been to the White Swan before?”

“Once, I think, ages ago. Certainly not often. And I think there’s a new landlord since then.”

“Well, then,” said Parker, “what is there about you, Mr. Puncheon, that induces people to hand you out valuable cargoes of dope on sight and without payment?”

“Goodness knows,” said Hector.

The desk telephone buzzed furiously, and Mr. Hawkins, snatching the receiver, plunged into a long conversation with some unknown person. The two policemen with their witness retired into a distant corner and carried on the inquiry in low tones.

“Either,” said Parker, “you must be the dead spit of some habitual dope-peddler, or you must have led them in some way to imagine that you were the person they expected to see. What did you talk about?”

Hector Puncheon racked his brains.

“Greyhounds,” he said at last, “and parrots. Chiefly parrots. Oh, yes-and goats.”

“Greyhounds, parrots and goats?”

“We were swapping stories about parrots,” said Hector Puncheon. “No, wait, we began about dogs. The little tout person said he’d had a dog that couldn’t abide goats and that led on to parrots and mice (I’d forgotten the mice)-and doping parrots with coffee and cayenne.”

“Doping?” said Parker, quickly. “Was that word used?”

“No, I don’t know that it was. The parrot was frightened of mice, and they had to cure it of shock by giving it coffee.”

“Whose parrot?”

“The little fellow’s aunt’s, I think. The old boy knew a parrot, too, but that belonged to a clergyman, and the bishop tried to teach it to swear and promoted the parson. I don’t know whether it was blackmail, or just that he liked the parrot.”

“But what did you contribute to the conversation?”

“Hardly anything. I just listened and paid for the drinks.”

“And the man in dress clothes?”

“Oh, he talked about his wife’s shopping-list and a parcel-yes, there was something about a parcel he ought to have brought with him.”

“Was the parcel produced?”

“No, he never had a parcel.”

“All right,” said Parker, after a little more of this unsatisfactory conversation. “We’ll go into the matter, Mr. Puncheon. We’re very much obliged to you and Mr.-er-Hawkins for having called our attention to the matter. We will take charge of the packet, and if we want you again, we’ll let you know.”

He rose to his feet. Mr. Hawkins shot across from his desk.

“Got all you want? You don’t want this story to go in, I suppose?” he added, wistfully.

“No; you mustn’t say anything about it at present,” said Parker, firmly. “But we’re very much indebted to you, and if anything comes of it, you shall have the story first with all the details we can give you. I can’t say fairer than that.”